Tectonic Shifts

Tectonic Shifts

Tumultuous battering of existence,

Whirling eddies wear unending,

Tumbling crumbs like fledglings to the sea.

Stationary to the traveller’s eye,

Yet ever pummelled by the elements,

Floating plates on molten lakes.

And so to the centuries of trees,

What was once a mountain face great and grand,

Now lie trampled beneath the feet of beasts.

Pressure great beneath the land,

Presses gems from the sand.

Drills dive deep to find the fortunes men seek.

Movement great upon these plates,

Forcing tiny fissures where we stand,

Making granite become a foundation

No more than that of sand.

Time takes all, bird, beast, and land,

Crags and cliffs birth valleys deep,

As wind bites and waters seep,

Never does the rock face sleep.

My normal

     In life, it seems that everything is gauged against some form of standard.  We chart data, form bell curves, decide how to inform/teach/control those involved.  From my perspective anyways, I find more than often I am among the few at the fringes.  What is average anyways that I strive so hard to blend in?   A median amid a scale of beautifully vast variety?  I find myself wondering whether I make the bar.  Part of me knows that no matter how hard I try, I likely won't fit the box that I formed for myself.  And why should I?  It's much better to be the person I was made to be, formed in part by what I was granted in birth and in part by my experiences on this third rock from the sun.

    Life hit a fork in the road when I found out I had cancer.  As a regular type A, I thought I would get knowledgeable on the subject, get over the hurdles of surgery and treatment and be back on track.  I had a plan-survive and move on.  Easy!  What I found was when everything was done, that was far from the case.  I was exhausted and the train of my former life had left the station.  I watched my cohorts go on to develop wonderful careers, establishing themselves as working professionals in their respective fields.  Happy for them, I consoled myself with the thought my turn would surely come.  I would catch the boat and continue on creating my own destiny, making the world what I wanted it to be.  Yeah, right!  Instead it seemed, all the ships have sailed and I had found myself in a new foreign land, feeling I was unable to do much about my circumstances.  The youth who hoped to take the bull by the horns was gone.

   So with my broad bag of tricks, I entered the not so lucrative world of retail.  The constant ebb and flow of customers with their unique projects and creativity made my poor paycheque seem to have some meaning.  As an avid sewer, I enjoyed my time at Fabricland, brief as it was, amassing more fabric and ideas than I could use up in a decade or more.
   The clock doesn't stop and here I am a mother of two a dozen years later still seeking my niche in this world, always hoping to find my normal in the wilderness of life.  I haven't been able to carve the path I wanted, but I have survived the trail I found.  Walking along the rugged terrain with my husband and children, we pick each other up as we stumble, lean on each other as the way gets rough, cling together through when in crisis.  Thank the Lord for the health care system our country has (though I may complain just like anyone else when politics dictate change) for our family has had our fair share of medical needs which may be fodder for a later post.
    Facing the daily grind together, we strive on.  Sometimes it's not pretty.  We fight, we make up, we hug.  Life is a long race, not a sprint.  (And I have run a few marathons.)  It's an effort, but  looking over all the reasons I love those I love and the moments we have shared is more important than the angst and strife of their annoying quirks.  Emotion can overrule rational thought so quickly and cause a person to spout words they may later regret.  (Jeremie, I love you.  As the sand slips through the hour glass, our love grows more beautiful, deeper.  We have been through so much together.)  I love my family and I hope we are never driven apart over anything petty in the grand scheme of things.
   Life can be beautiful too.  I love watching my children grow, watching their perspectives change and their independence develop, even though sometimes I feel like I am knocking my head against the wall trying to get them to simply brush their teeth.  An avid amateur triathlete, I love being in the moment, the feeling of cutting through the water as I swim, running through a trail lined with autumn leaves and the nervy speed of sailing down a hill on my road bike.  I love sitting down to watch a movie with my husband and sharing a big bowl of popcorn.  He can tolerate my movie critic comments and occasionally joins in.  (I am very passionate about a good story and continuity in a storyline.)
   So I am moving on... or trying to.  Like it or not, life is not what I thought it would be pre cancer- the very ominous pivot point in my life.  I can't remain balled up like an armadillo, hard shell facing out to defend against the potential hurt of people's comments.  Fear of failure has kept me silent to the point I feel the need to scream.  Time to rip off the bandaid, dive in.  If the world at large doesn't like what I have to say, so be it.  I hope that I meet a few kindred spirits along the way.  This is me and I am broken, but not defeated.
   As time passes, and my life intersects with others, I get the feeling I am not alone.  Maybe my normal isn't so abnormal after all.  So I am stepping out on a limb and posting my writing instead of leaving it sealed up, locked away in the virtual vault of my external hard drive, sharing my experiences and perceptions.  Perhaps it's better to rage against the night, so I send my thoughts out into the void hoping to be heard.

Crunch, Crunch, Crunch

Writing Club Exercise #2

May 13, 2014

Prompt: Write something with the phrase, “Crunch, Crunch, Crunch.” 

Crunch, Crunch, Crunch

Goes my lunch, lunch, lunch.

Crumbly, rumbly, mumbly,

Goes my tumbly tummy.

Sweet treats for little feet come at patter,

Here comes Kitty chasing like a mad hatter.

Sour, dour, covered in flour

Comes the baked Baker raging.

Cakes, lovely cakes, he makes,

Many layers all for a bride,

The Baker had stacked them to the side,

Iced in pretty pinks, fallen into the sink.

Sugar fell off the counter,

When Kitty’s gone a saunter.

Run, Kitty run,

Baker’s got his gun.

We mice Nibble, nibble, nibble,

As we listen to the Kitty’s libel.

Baker’s picked her tail with buckshot.

The wedding cake wasn’t what Poor Kitty sought.

When Kitty’s away,

We mice will play.

Fishing Tale

Writing Club

Exercise #2

Feb 25,2014

Maximalism vs Minimalism

Write a sentence with as many words as possible and write the same with as few as possible.

Minimalism: 
I caught a pike while ice fishing.

Maximalism: 
Though the bitter northern gale beat upon my worn mustard yellow nylon hut so it flapped frantically as though at any moment it would take flight to follow after the geese that had flown the coop three months ago, I had patiently waited poised over the unblinking inky black pupil I carved before the storm hit in the fourteen inch thick ice, resting precariously on my three legged stool, accompanied by Shadow, the most mellow Alaskan Malamute ever to have not seen the cold tundra, who himself was engrossed in gnawing through an entire elk’s femur, only momentarily lose grip on my fishing pole when Steel-eyed Pete took hold of my line, but I managed to reel the slimy sea monster in, not without wearing through my wet woolen mitts in the hour and a half wrestling match.

So it goes along like this:

August 6, 2014

So it goes along like this:

We sing a song so sweetly,

Others hear a crow’s cry

For what we thought was sweet

Really was a lie!

The world spins us round,

Crashing us upside down.

Perception is a sorted thing,

Fooling us of the song we sing.

Broken hearts and broken dreams,

Leave us bursting at the seams,

Full of words that cut and hurt

Deeper than a knife can sting.

When we set to mend our ways

We might find ourselves lost for many days

If not for the relief forgiveness brings. 

An arm’s embrace is a blessed thing.

As we weep together we find

We really are quite the same.